Loving How They Used The Comic Design For The New Red Star ⭐

THIS IS SO SWEET😭😭😭😭😭💓

Best Laid Plans

Lee Bodecker x Female Reader

When your plans for the town's Easter egg hunt go awry, you find help from an unlikely source...

This is for the lovely's @buck-star 's Easter Special ! Felt very inspired so started this earlier this afternoon and it just flowed! Way longer than planned lol sorry.

Character: Lee Bodecker

Trope: 🌷 Enemies to lovers

Prompt: 🐰 Easter egg hunt

Wordcount: Approx. 3.9k

No major warnings. I have also been deliberate vague about when this is set - so it's up to you! Hope you enjoy - as always I love hearing your thoughts ❤️

🐰

A satisfied grin spread across your face as you arranged the model chicks and bunnies, a sea of pastels brightening up the tired storefronts amongst the floral arrangements you’d already hung. Perfect. You smoothed down your polka dot sundress as you took in the scene. Just beyond the storefronts were the stalls for the fair later, selling everything from lemonade to chocolate, handmade crafts and freshly baked goods. A few of the vendors had started to set up, but there was still a nice amount of time before people would start to arrive. You’d given yourself a wide margin to prepare everything, hopefully you’ll have a little downtime to relax before the festivities began.

Your vision was finally all coming together. It was touch and go there for a while, especially with the well-meaning-but-pretty-useless Jake as your helper, but it was actually starting to pay off. It actually looked…good! Especially for a smalltown fair. You couldn’t wait to see the kids’ faces when they arrived later.

“Looks like the Easter bunny threw up out here,” someone chuckled from behind you.

Your smile dropped as you turned to face the culprit. But you already knew who that smooth voice belonged to.

Ugh. There he was. Again.

His uniform looked surprisingly crisp for him, stretched over his broad shoulders. He must’ve finally given the iron a try. Or maybe he’d convinced old Mrs O’Malley to help out a busy bachelor. You could still spy the curve of his stomach peeking out over his waistband from under the starchy white shirt. Not that it mattered, you normally liked a hefty man.

Just not this hefty man.

He stood there confidently surveying your handiwork, like a judge at a dog show. His sheriff badge caught a flicker of morning sunlight as his mouth pulled into a pensive sneer. He was normally quite handsome, not that you’d ever admit that. He had a gorgeous smile on the rare occasions you saw it, almost boyish in contrast to the severity of his short hair and tense jaw.

“Very funny, Sheriff Bodecker,” you replied in a deadpan tone. “Come up with that one all by yourself?”

He leaned on the roadblock barrier and chuckled. “Yeah. Spent all morning workin’ on it,” he grinned devilishly as he manoeuvred the toothpick in his mouth from one side to the other, his eyes alight with mischief. Lee Bodecker had the most beautiful blue eyes, you’d noticed…

…Shame the man they belonged to was utterly insufferable.

“Glad my tax dollars are going to good use…” you sighed as you moved to collect the baskets for the egg hunt.

“Hey, you’re gettin’ free labour from my men and a whole street closed off for your little Easter party here, maybe save me the sass,” he scoffed. You didn’t like the patronising hand gesture he used to emphasis ‘little’.

You sighed incredulously, continuing to arrange the baskets, “it’s not my Easter party. And it’s a fair by the way. And it’s for the whole town. It’s about community, being together – whether you celebrate Easter or not. A little morale goes a long way…”

He rolled his eyes “Mm. Well the residents who lost their parking spaces to the roadblock this morning certainly didn’t have much morale when they came to bitch at the station about it…”

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes. You turned to him again, one hand on your hip and the other clasping one of the little yellow baskets which you pointed at him accusatorily. You knew exactly who he was referring to. That same vocal minority had also come to PTA meetings, written angry letters to the school – and once even ambushed you at the market. They seemed unmoved that it was a joint effort from the school and the church to do something nice for the town. The way they reacted, anyone might think you were responsible for evicting them from their houses, not using their preferred parking spaces for a few hours. You’d already repeated the same arguments so many times that you could probably recite them in your sleep. You were simply sick of talking about it, which you quickly made clear to Lee.

“Listen here, Sheriff. I’m going to tell you what I told all of them. It’s one day. One. We gave them plenty of notice about it, explaining it was so the kids could do the Easter egg hunt without the fear of getting mowed down, and folks can set up their market stalls with plenty of space. God forbid they park in that lot a few streets over and walk the short distance to main street – they can all fit in there, we’re not exactly New York City levels of population here in Meade…And most of them walk to town anyway!! Besides, the district owns those spaces, not them – just because they park in them most days when they come to shoot the shit at the barbers doesn’t mean they’re theirs.”

A little sharper than you had anticipated, but it did the job. You exhaled, trying to calm yourself down as you felt yourself get riled up.

Lee smirked, cocking his head to the side as he studied you. “Wow. Is that how you talk to your students when they act up? Or is it just me that the local schoolteacher likes to put in his place?” his voice was low, almost a purr.

You didn’t like the strange flush that he somehow brought to your cheeks. You briefly felt off balance. You needed to shake that off.

“My students know how to behave,” you quipped. And just like that, the flush had gone. The familiar irritation had taken its place.

The two of you stared at each other for a moment, a strange buzz between you that you couldn’t quite identify. You felt that with him sometimes. You didn’t know why. Maybe it was just anger.

His eyes were on you so intensely it seemed like they could tear a hole in your skin.

Then he just laughed. The irritation burned through you, down to your bones.

“Why are you even here? The roadblock is up, nothing starts officially for another couple of hours…” you shrugged. “Surely the Sheriff has better things to be doing than supervising me putting up toy bunnies…” you muttered.

“Wow…so much for community and morale,” he replied in a mock-outraged tone.

You didn’t know why you let him get to you so much. You didn’t know why he did get to you so much. It had always been this way with him, nothing but a sliding scale from feisty jibes to outright loathing.

You weren’t like this with anyone else. You were a schoolteacher, priding yourself on being approachable and kind – a figure in the community who was happy to be a listening ear, who took her responsibility for the town’s children and their education very seriously. You were heavily involved in the church, in the PTA, volunteered at the old folks’ home when you had time. This strange feud with the Sheriff was the one misshapen puzzle piece that didn’t fit with the rest of the picture. A fault by the manufacturer.

And it had been like this since day one, since you moved to town just over a year ago. You had been keen to meet the local Sheriff, hoping to ingratiate yourself with him and work together to benefit the community – but he’d shut you down almost immediately when you’d introduced yourself at a town meeting. He’d lazily looked you up and down in a way that could only be described as with contempt. Your smiled had faded as he introduced himself with disinterest, moving back to talk to his deputies like you were some chore he couldn’t wait to finish. You had no idea what you’d done wrong.

Since then, you had just never met eye to eye. Never been on the same wavelength. He just had a way of getting under your skin, of draining your patience in a way that even a rowdy group of six-year-olds couldn’t pull off. Although you generally aimed to always be the bigger person in life and rise above petty things, Sheriff Bodecker seemed to be the exception to that philosophy. Maybe his dismissal of you before he’d even properly spoken to you was what provoked such strong feeling, but you couldn’t explain the inevitable descent every time you met him.

You bickered every time you crossed paths. Arguing in line at the market, squabbling in the street, once there had even been (hushed) strong words at the back of church during a service.

You’d turned up to the station one afternoon to meet with Deputy Carter about arranging a school safety talk and the officers on the front desk had audibly sighed knowing what was going to happen. The whole town was aware of this rivalry, and just sort of took for granted that this was just how things were with the Sheriff and that schoolteacher.

…and yes. The officers were right. You and the Sheriff had managed to get each other’s backs up after a mere few minutes because you had laughed a little too loudly when his hat briefly slipped off his head. Business as usual.

You couldn’t really admit it to yourself. But maybe you also kinda enjoyed it. Just a tiny bit. Sometimes.

“Oh whatever…” you hissed, trying to focus on the task at hand. You didn’t have time for this, you can’t let Lee distract you when you have so much still to do. “Go. Stay. I don’t care either way. I need to hide the eggs and-”

You froze as you tugged at the trash bag containing the coloured eggs that you were going to hide for the hunt. It didn’t feel…right. The weight was off. It didn’t sit like a bag of small toy eggs.

You untied the bag and gasped when the contents were revealed.

Not eggs.

Not even close.

…a bag of trash.

You let out a pained moan as you fell to your knees, rifling through the bag in the weak hope that the eggs were at the bottom, and someone had put trash in the wrong bag by mistake. But no. Not a one there.

How could this-

And then it all fell into place at once. Jake, the enthusiastic but somewhat hapless school coach who had offered to help with the planning. Yesterday, after school you’d given him the eggs as you bagged up the classroom waste bin…he then offered to take it out for you as he was parked near the dumpster…so he must’ve mixed up…

Oh.

Oh God.

…And trash pick-up had been early this morning.

Those eggs were long gone.

Even if by some miracle you managed to somehow track them down, they’d most likely be crushed by the truck anyway – or all mixed in with the town’s other garbage. Covered in God knows what.

You stomach churned. You thought about the kids in your class, how excited they were about the hunt. They’d all been talking about it for weeks, all claiming they were going to win and find the most eggs – win the ‘mystery prize’ that the flyer tantalisingly offered (a brand-new bike, sponsored by one of the richer families in Brewer Heights. You had been so proud to source that).

How could you let them all down? See the disappointment on their little faces when they realised?

You couldn’t.

So, you switched into problem solving mode. As satisfying as it would be to tear Jake a new one for his mistake, that wouldn’t help the kids. Where could you get more eggs? You had already bought out almost the entire supply locally to ensure as many kids as possible could participate. You could drive to another town, but would you make it back in time? What if they were sold out too? This close to Easter…how many eggs were going to be left in stores exactly? Would they even be open? A lot of places had already closed up to spend time with their families. It was that way around these parts, these were mom and pop operations - not national chain stores. You could call ahead but-

“Well. That’s gonna be a weird egg hunt,” Lee interrupted your internal monologue as he toed at the now ripped open bag of trash. “I know the school budget has been cut, but damn…”

You closed your eyes. You’d been so caught up that you’d almost forgotten he was still here. “Just…not now, please,” you snap without looking up.

“Didn’t need to close the street just for you to hide garbage. Ain’t that just littering…?” he chuckles.

You look up at him, tears of frustration swimming in your eyes. “Coach Jensen must’ve switched the bags by accident,” you say softly.

Lee furrows his brows, his ever-present smirk shrinking as he takes you in. Maybe for the first time ever. His features soften as he starts to absorb that look on your face. The look that tells him this is serious. “That guy’s an ass…” he replies, his voice low.

“Yeah, I know,” you whispered. “God…The kids are so excited…”

“You can’t just call it off?”

“No!” you said incredulously. “This is all they’ve been talking about in class, all through school! I can’t just cancel it. I just need to figure out how to find more eggs before the hunt. There’s none left in our store but maybe I could drive to the next town over…”

He put his hands on his hips, his stance authoritative like he was doing a traffic stop, or talking to a perp. He checks his watch. “At this hour? You won’t make it back in time…”

“Thanks for your help Sheriff, as always,” you snarl.

He sighed defeatedly. “Could you just…hide something else for them to hunt? Matchsticks or something? I dunno…”

“It’s Easter! They were promised eggs!” you huff, “what kind of easter egg hunt would that be?”

You are unable to stop the few tears that break through the barrier and onto your cheek. You’re just so frustrated, so tired after staying up late to prepare all of this. And all your hard work is coming unravelled because of a few lousy eggs and a feckless man who doesn’t check garbage bags.

God, what a mess. Why do you even care so much? This is silly. Mistakes happen. The town will understand.

Right?

“Hey, hey,” Lee coos gently and takes a step closer to you, “don’t get upset…it’s just eggs…” His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it, it barely sounds like him at all.

You feel a wave of shame, mortification that he is bearing witness to this. The unfamiliarity of his tone is so unexpected, so jarring, that it adds to your embarrassment rather than soothes it. Why did he have to be here? Why him of all people? And what, he pities you now? More ammunition for his side in your little war – the silly, emotional teacher who cries over easter eggs. A chink in your armour, vulnerability for him to mock and dine out on for years to come…as if he didn’t already think you were a fool…

“It’s not just eggs,” you reply dully. Your eyes lock onto his. He simply doesn’t understand how important this is. How many children are counting on you. He doesn’t understand anything about you.

You turn away from him, taking a deep breath as you quickly wipe away your tears with your knuckles. You won’t let him have any more of you than you’ve already given. You shakily get to your feet.

“I’m gonna go around to a few parents’ houses and see what I can find,” you say out loud, more for you than for him. To anchor you, make you feel like you have a plan – however weak. “I should be able to rustle up some from their Easter decorations at least. I’ll be back to finish setting up”.

Lee stares at you. It seems like he has more to say, but he remains quiet. He clears his throat, nods. “Uh. Alright. Well, I’m going to go back to the station. Check on a few things. Good luck…with the eggs…it’ll work out.”

You nod, but don’t turn around as you leave him behind. You don’t believe him.

🐇.•*¨`*•.¸ 🐇.•*¨`*•. 🐇¸.•*¨`*•. 🐇

A little while later you make your way back to the fair. You feel so downtrodden that there could almost be rocks in your pockets, every movement takes effort and energy you no longer possess. You dread every step closer as you trudge heavily across town.

Despite a committed campaign, working your way across several neighbourhoods, you were only able to source a pathetic few eggs. Nowhere near enough to sustain a full-on egg hunt for all of the town’s children. Maybe even neighbouring towns if word got out. You check your watch; and you’re running late, too. You were going to have to explain to dozens of disappointed kids (and their angry parents) why their most anticipated Easter activity wasn’t happening. You practiced your speech in your head as you walked.

As you rounded the corner to the roadblock, you took a deep breath and prepared yourself for the worst. Your stomach swam with nausea, your heartbeat echoing in your ears. You should’ve called Jake and made him do this. It was his fault after all.

You brace yourself for the crowd of confused children, when…

You can’t quite believe your eyes.

The kids are here, yes. But they’re running around, yellow baskets in their little hands as they shriek and holler, darting underneath doorsteps and plant pots to hunt. A small pile of coloured eggs sits in each of their baskets. Every single one of them is having a blast. Their parents watch on proudly, sharing their joy.

Are you going insane?

Some of them notice you and wave excitedly, calling your name and shouting over to you about how much fun it is. Their parents echo similar sentiments, and you just wave back gormlessly, trying to figure out what the hell is happening.

Is this some sort of hallucination?

“Phew. Told ya it would work out.”

You turn to the figure who has sidled up next to you, your eyes wide with surprise as Lee watches the joyful chaos unfold in front of you both.

“How…what…” you splutter.

“I remembered we did a similar thing a few years back,” he says casually without taking his eyes off the fun. “It was a police fundraiser around Easter time. One of my dim-witted deputies thought he ordered 100 eggs…turns out he ordered 100 cases…”

Your mouth falls agape as realisation slowly dawns.

“Shoved ‘em in the old outbuilding and forgot we had ‘em if I’m honest, ‘til this morning. Never thought we’d use them all, but here we are”. He laughs and rests his hands on his belt buckle.

“You…you did this?” you whisper, your throat tight with shock.

He shrugs, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Sure. Rounded up a bunch of the boys and we got ‘em all out. Not the most creative hiding places, you probably woulda done better – but the kiddos don’t seem to mind. Some of them are a bit dusty from storage – but again, kids are paying that no mind. Don’t worry, I didn’t tell no one. So, you’ll still get all the credit, you deserve it anyway – you put all the work in”.

Your eyes round as you stare at him. He stands there nonchalantly, like he didn’t just save the day. Didn’t just save you.

“You did that…for me?” you ask, bewildered.

“Sure. You needed help. That prick Jensen wasn’t gonna fix it, was he?”

“B..but. You don’t even like me?” you stammer weakly. Your brain simply can’t absorb any of this.

He finally turns, an eyebrow cocked in confusion. His blue eyes squint as his lip curls. “What? ‘Course I like ya”.

You feel like you’re going insane. “What?? We fight, all the time! You are always jabbing at me, making fun of me, riling me up…”

His face mirrors your own puzzlement but for a different reason, “yeah, but it’s just fun, isn’t it? Banter. I love fighting with you. It’s always a highlight of my day. You’re so…fun. Feisty. I love it. I never actually meant any harm…”

If you’d been sitting on a chair at that moment, you would’ve fallen out of it.

“WHAT?” you roar so loudly that some people turn around. You hush yourself immediately, trying to avoid a scene. “You were SO RUDE, the first time we met…it’s been hell ever since…”

He finally has the decency to look embarrassed as his eyes drop to the ground. “Oh, right. That. Yeah. That was shitty. I should’ve apologised…you just caught me off guard…”

“What do you mean?! All I did was say hello?” you sneer through gritted teeth.

“Yeah…and be gorgeous. Nobody told me the new teacher was a goddamn beauty. I panicked, couldn’t form words. You made me feel like a damn teenager with how nervous you made me”.

You just stare at him as you try and process what he’d just said, your mother would say you could catch flies with your mouth hanging open like that.

“Wait…You were rude because…you thought I was pretty?”

“Damn beautiful, actually. And I didn’t mean to be rude. Really. My brain just damn near stopped working”, he says bashfully.

“So, wait, this whole time you…”

You trail off as you suddenly reframe every interaction with him in your memory in a matter of seconds. The strange, unidentifiable buzz you felt with him sometimes. The way he got to you like nobody else. His smile widening every time he saw you, which you’d always assumed was just him getting ready to rile you up. How he would always gravitate to you if you were in the same place. The way he seemed to take so much pleasure in making fun of you, of talking with you…

…being with you?

“I should’ve just not been a coward and spoken to you properly, I’m sorry,” he sighs as he looks down at his feet. His voice more passive than you’d ever heard it. “Ask you on a date. Treat you nice, court you a little. I guess I never thought a pretty girl like you would go for a schlub like me, and I always had your attention when we argued – so why risk it?”

You look over at the giggling kids, the proud parents, the townspeople enjoying the stalls, sipping lemonade and laughing. You look back at him. You think of him hauling those old boxes from the station, getting his staff to help. Trying to find good hiding places for the eggs, wiping the dust from them. Greeting the kids and their parents as they arrived, giving them the little baskets. Doing it all for you without being asked, doing it for you because he wanted to.

Maybe he understood more about you than you realised.

He cautiously stands in front of you, you look deep into his cerulean eyes and before you know it, you’re kissing him. He wobbles slightly in surprise but corrects himself and finds his feet, kissing you back, his arms around your waist like they’d always been there. The rest of the world melts away and suddenly everything feels right. You don’t care that they can all see. You don’t care about anything else.

You break away and rest your forehead on his. You both laugh at the hooting and hollering from behind you, the cries of ‘about time!’ from his deputies. Apparently everyone could see it but you.

“Don’t I get a thank you? For fixing it?” he grins.

“Why? It’s just eggs,” you beam.

“…it’s not just eggs,” he chuckled as he moves to kiss you again.

THE END

Sarge? 🪖

Pretty flowers for a lovely boy

Flower Bouquet

Summary: You buy him flowers.

Word count: 1811 Words

Warnings: No one.

Bucky Barnes X Reader

You walk into the flower shop, your footsteps quiet on the polished floor. The moment you open the door, a wave of floral scents greets you, sweet, fresh and calming. You pause for a second, just to take it all in. Flowers have always held a special place in your heart. They’re simple but full of life, just like the way you feel when you’re with him. Bucky.

You glance down at your phone. It’s been a few months now. Time has flown by, but in the best way. You and Bucky have found a rhythm, a connection that grows deeper each day. He’s no longer the stoic man he once was. Not entirely. And you… you’re no longer the person you were before he came into your life.

A smile tugs at your lips as you begin to peruse the shelves. The roses are beautiful, but not today. Not for him. You want something different, something that suits who he is, not just the conventional symbol of love. Your fingers brush against a bunch of white lilies, their petals delicate and pure, and you stop.

Perfect.

You pick them up carefully, admiring their simplicity. Their fragrance fills your nose, soft but with just enough sweetness to make your heart flutter. You take your time, adding a few sprigs of lavender and a couple of purple irises to the mix. It’s subtle, elegant.. like him. You know he’s not someone who needs grand gestures, but you also know how much he appreciates when people show they care, when they take the time to think of him.

The florist wraps the bouquet in soft tissue paper, tying it with a simple satin ribbon. You thank her, your hands cradling the flowers like they’re something precious, because to you, they are. You’re giving them to him.

When you reach his apartment, the nerves start to settle in. They’re not nerves from doubt, but more from the excitement of wanting to make him feel special. It’s not the first time you’ve gotten him something, but it’s the first time you’ve given him flowers. It feels like a big deal, like you’re taking another step together. You’re not even sure why you decided to do this, maybe just maybe because you saw them at the flower shop and thought of him, or maybe because you just want to see him smile.

You knock on his door and wait, your heart thumping in your chest. A few seconds later, the door opens and there he is. Bucky. Standing in his usual attire, a simple T-shirt, jeans and his leather jacket that fits him perfectly. The way he looks at you, his blue eyes lighting up when he sees you, makes everything inside you settle.

“Hey” he says, his voice warm, low and familiar. His gaze flickers to the bouquet in your hands. “What’s this?” he asks with a smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.

You grin, a little shy now, but trying to keep your cool. “For you,” you say, holding them out to him. “Just because.”

Bucky blinks, his gaze dropping to the flowers. His metal hand twitches slightly at his side, like he’s not sure if he should take them or not.

“…You got me flowers?” His voice is cautious, like he’s expecting a punchline.

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, that’s usually how this works.”

His brows furrow slightly in surprise, his lips parting as if he’s not sure what to make of this. His hand hesitates before he takes the bouquet from you, fingers brushing against yours for a brief, electric second.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he says, his voice low but filled with genuine gratitude. “What’s the occasion?”

You shrug, trying to appear nonchalant, though your heart is racing a little. “No occasion. I just thought you’d like them.”

Bucky stares down at the flowers, his expression softening as he takes in their delicate beauty. “They’re beautiful,” he says quietly. “But, uh… I’m not used to getting flowers.”

He looks at it like it’s some kind of unfamiliar artifact, turning it slightly in his hands, inspecting the mix of blue delphiniums, white lilies and a few sprigs of lavender.

“No roses” he murmurs.

“You don’t seem like a roses kind of guy.”

His lips twitch, the closest thing to a smile. “And I seem like a…?”

You shrug. “Delphinium and lavender kind of guy.”

Bucky lets out a small, breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “That’s a first.”

You chuckle, stepping closer to him. “Well, consider it as our first,” you tease. “I figured you could use something to brighten your day.”

You cross your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “So, do I get a ‘thank you’ or are you just gonna stand there looking at them like they’re a bomb?”

He huffs a laugh but looks back down at the bouquet, his fingers tracing one of the petals absentmindedly. His expression softens, something unreadable passing through his eyes.

“I… yeah.” He clears his throat, shifting his weight. “Thank you. I just… no one’s ever given me flowers before.”

You tilt your head. “Never?”

He shakes his head. “Not really something guys like me get.”

You frown slightly. “Well, that’s dumb. Flowers aren’t just for girls. They’re for people you care about.”

Something in his expression changes, something subtle but deep, like he’s trying to process the weight of your words. He looks back down at the bouquet again, then exhales softly, almost like he’s letting himself accept it.

He smiles again, this time with a hint of something vulnerable. He looks up at you, his gaze searching, before he clears his throat. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t really know how to handle this.”

You chuckle softly. “It’s simple, Bucky. You just accept it. No need for a big speech or anything.”

He lifts the bouquet to his nose, inhaling deeply. For a moment, his eyes flutter closed and a quiet sigh escapes him. You watch him, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. It’s a simple thing, this gift, but you can already tell it means something to him. Maybe it’s not the flowers themselves, but the thought behind them. The fact that you were thinking of him, that you wanted to give him something. You know that his past has made him wary of affection, of kindness, but moments like this show that he's willing to let down his guard just a little more each time.

After a moment, he looks back up at you, his expression softer, more open than before. “Thank you. This... really means a lot to me,” he says, voice thick with something you can’t quite name.

You smile, relieved to see that he’s not rejecting the gesture, but genuinely appreciating it. “I’m glad you like them. I thought they suited you.”

He chuckles, a small, almost awkward sound and rubs the back of his neck. “I’m just not used to this. People... doing nice things for me, just because.”

You tilt your head slightly, meeting his eyes. “Well, you deserve it. You deserve to be treated well. And these” you gesture to the bouquet “are just a small way of showing you that.”

Bucky’s eyes soften and you notice the way he’s looking at you, like he’s seeing you in a new light. “You’re something else,” he murmurs, his voice full of awe, like he’s trying to process it all. “I don’t know how I got so lucky.”

Your heart skips a beat and for a second, you don’t know what to say. You just stand there, looking at each other, a thousand unspoken words hanging between you. The vulnerability in his voice, the warmth in his eyes… it makes your chest ache in the best way.

“Well” you say, your voice teasing to break the tension. “Now that I’ve made you blush, I’ll take my leave.” You make a move toward the door, but before you can step past him, Bucky grabs your wrist gently.

“Wait” he says, his voice a little rougher than usual. “I want to thank you properly.” He pulls you back toward him, not forcefully, just enough to close the distance between you. His eyes search yours and before you can even react, he steps closer, leaning in to brush his lips against your cheek in a soft, lingering kiss.

You freeze for a second, your breath catching. He pulls away slowly and you can’t help the smile that spreads across your face. You glance at the flowers in his hands again, feeling a rush of warmth flood through you.

“You didn’t have to do that” you murmur, though you know it’s a lie.

“I wanted to” he says quietly, his thumb gently brushing the back of your hand. “You don’t know how much this means to me. You’re making me believe in things I didn’t think I could anymore.”

You look up at him, your heart full. “I’m glad,” you whisper.

“Come inside” he says after a moment, stepping back to let you in.

You follow him in, watching as he moves toward the kitchen, still holding the bouquet with a sort of hesitant reverence. He sets them down on the counter, staring at them for a second before glancing at you.

“So… what do I do with them?”

You snort. “You put them in water, grandpa.”

He glares at you, but there’s no real heat behind it. “I know that.” He pulls a glass from the cabinet, filling it with water before placing the flowers inside. It’s not the best makeshift vase, but it works. He stares at them for a long moment, then, almost absently, lifts one of the lavender sprigs and twirls it between his fingers.

“They smell nice,” he mutters.

You smile. “Yeah. Figured you’d like that.”

Bucky’s quiet for a second before he leans against the counter, looking at you with something unreadable in his expression. “You really just… got these for me? No reason?”

You shrug. “Do I need a reason?”

He shakes his head slowly, his thumb brushing over the lavender again. “No. I guess not.”

There’s something raw in his voice, something that makes your chest tighten. You don’t push, don’t press him to say anything more. Instead, you just step closer, resting your hip against the counter beside him.

Bucky exhales, running a hand through his hair before giving you a sideways glance. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

You smirk. “I get that a lot.”

He huffs another soft laugh, then looks back at the flowers, something warm settling into his expression. “I like ‘em,” he admits, voice softer now.

Your chest warms. “Good.”

And as he stands there, quietly admiring the simple gift, you realize that this, this quiet, unspoken moment, is exactly why you brought them in the first place.

Super Soldier Domesticated | Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Domestic scenes with Bucky Barnes, because Bucky Barnes deserves to be HAPPY.

A/N: I have returned to pray at the altar of James Buchanan Barnes. Thunderbolts dropped and flooded my insta feed. Oh, how past me would have rejoiced in all of this Bucky content.

Word count: 3.1k

Warnings: fluff, implications of smut, language, possible misinformation about various contraceptive devices (please inform yourselves lol)

-

Bucky Barnes was the fist of Hydra. 

He’d spent decades being shaped into the perfect asset—ruthless, detached, the ultimate killing machine. He was cruel. He was dangerous. He was violent.

He’d been tortured. He’d been torn apart and stitched back together, and only when barely an inkling of the man he used to be remained, they’d set him loose on the world.

It was almost funny, Bucky thought now as he looked down at his working hands. To think what this arm—this near indestructible artificial limb—had been created for. It had squeezed the life from many a target, had pulled the triggers of guns and survived explosions. It had brought unspeakable pain upon his victims.

And yet …

“Not too tight, Bucky.”

Her voice had come quietly, softly, and from where he sat on the edge of the bed, Bucky could tell that her eyes had slipped closed a while ago. She sat on the floor between his legs, with her own legs crossed and her back straight.

Bucky loosened his grip at once, the strands of her hair now looser in his palms.

“Like this?” he asked, only taking his eyes off her face once an approving hum resonated through her chest.

“Perfect.”

A smile tugged on the corners of his lips as he went back to work. Right strand over, pull the middle to the right, then repeat with the left. It was tough to keep each of the three strands separated—nimble work, delicate. This was his second attempt after the first had ended in a merging of the left and the middle strand. It had been chaos.

“I can’t believe you manage to do this behind your head,” he spoke quietly, fingers moving a little faster with every inch he managed to braid successfully.

“Years of practice.” There was a smile in her voice. It warmed Bucky’s chest. “Hey, Buck?”

He hummed to signal that he was listening, concentrating on getting the bottom of the braid right. She’d warned him that it could get tricky to avoid shorter strands of hair from sticking out at the side.

“Would you mind running to the store later?”

“’Course not, doll,” he mumbled, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth as he pinched the end of her braid between his fingers to carefully slip on the hair tie he kept on his wrist. It was one of his, but ever since he’d cut his hair, he didn’t need them anymore, and so they’d long been adopted by Y/N, merging with her own hair accessories in the small bathroom they shared.

When he finished, he carefully draped the braid over her shoulder, succumbing to the urge to touch her with a single finger brushing along her neck.

“What do you think?”

Delicate fingers found the braid, and Y/N turned her head far enough to peek down at his work. Bucky found himself holding his breath in anticipation of her verdict.

When she looked up at him, she offered a smile. It was the wide kind—the beaming kind. It was the kind to touch the corners of her eyes and have Bucky’s heart stutter in a way that would be worrying if it wasn’t for the serum in his veins that pretty much prevented cardiac arrest.

“Perfect job, baby,” she said, craning her neck towards him. Bucky smiled when he leaned forward to meet her in a kiss.

-

Left hand clutching the handle of the shopping basket, Bucky stuck to an empty aisle to study the yellow post-it note she’d written him.

Granola

Eggs (2 dozen)

Apples

Tomatoes

Grated cheese (Gouda or Cheddar)

Toothpaste (2x)

Tampons

Ice cream (!!!)

He smirked at the three exclamation marks behind ice cream, carved deep enough into the paper to leave grooves on the other side. There was exactly one type of ice cream she loved, and ever since he’d bought the wrong one once, she’d taken to reminding him on every note she wrote.

By now, he knew the layout of the supermarket well enough that he could find his way in the dark. They were good for him, these mundane tasks. He needed routine, needed something to do. It gave him peace to do something that was important but did not include guns, or bombs, or mission reports. It gave him peace to function in this little bubble he inhabited with Y/N.

He stood before the shelf with the period products now, two cartons with a dozen eggs each already secured in his basket. They were mainly for him. He ate four each morning.

Bucky could not recall a time when he didn’t know everything there was to know about the absorbency of Tampons. He knew the brands, knew the sizes, knew that Y/N preferred the ones without the applicator because she thought the extra piece of plastic was an unnecessary waste.

Two purple boxes fell into his basket before he moved on to the ice box.

-

The headboard pressed into Bucky’s back as he held out the tub of ice cream for Y/N to dig her spoon in. They’d agreed it was best he hold it, as his was the only hand that would not eventually freeze.

He loved these moments with her. He lived for them.

She lay next to him, one leg stretched before her, the other bend at the knee. She was wearing one of his shirts and a thick pair of socks, leaning most of her weight against his shoulder. Bucky found it soothing.

“It’s one of the only options without hormones,” she explained before her spoon vanished into her mouth, then adding with her mouth full, “But it’s supposed to hurt like a bitch when they put it in.”

Bucky gave a grunt, scraping some off the top of the ice cream with his own spoon. “I read that it increases bleeding. Makes your cramps worse, too.”

“Well, that only leaves hormonal birth control then.”

Bucky frowned.

It had taken some explaining for Bucky to fully understand the intricacies of new age contraception, but he found that he didn’t like the idea of something messing with her hormones—with her health.

“There’s nothing I could take?”

She thought about it for a moment, lips clasped tightly around her spoon. The sight almost took Bucky’s mind off the topic at hand. Almost.

“Afraid not,” she finally said with a small sigh through her nose. “Unless you want to get snipped,” she added with a pained smile.

Bucky offered her the tub and watched as she dug a large spoonful from the centre.

“I might be sterile anyway, darlin’,” he finally said quietly.

They’d spoken about it—the possibility that the serum had done some irreversible damage to Bucky’s system. He’d already gotten tested before he’d met her, but it had been hard for the doctors to tell. No one was accustomed to a super soldier organism. The best they’d been able to tell him was that it was likely either one extreme or the other.

“Sterile or super-soldier-fertile,” Y/N repeated what he’d told her. “And your body would likely just heal you if you got a vasectomy.”

Bucky tilted his head as he looked at her. “I don’t actually mind us using condoms.”

It had been Y/N who’d brought up the possibility for her to start taking birth control, but Bucky could not quite shake the feeling that she’d mentioned it mainly for his sake.

Y/N hummed in thought, lifting her free hand to push her fingers through his hair, tugging gently at the ends. Bucky’s eyes slipped close for just a second.

“Forever?” she asked pensively, pursing her lips. “It seems easier for me to just get something permanent. An implant, or an IUD.” A thought crossed her mind then, and she narrowed her eyes at him with interest. “What did you do in the 40s?”

Bucky pulled a face. “Ah, couldn’t tell ya. Pulled out and hoped for the best.”

Truth be told, Bucky had never really bothered with it back in his youth. He’d known that they were experimenting with jellies and creams—he’d heard it from a girl he’d been going out with. There’d been condoms of course, but they weren’t nearly as common as they were nowadays, and frankly Bucky wouldn’t have been able to afford them even if they had been.

Y/N snorted. It was a delightful sound.

“So what you’re telling me is you might have some unknown descendants scattered around the world?”

Bucky smirked down at the ice cream, a cold drop of water trickling in between the vibranium tiles of his hand.

“I would’ve heard,” he said. “Wasn’t like I was sleeping with the whole neighbourhood.”

She hummed, grinning when she pressed her nose into his cheek. “I don’t believe you for one second. Not with that charm of yours.”

“I don’t want you taking hormones,” Bucky said suddenly, turning to meet Y/N’s gaze. “Not for me. I read some horror stories online, doll. About blood clots, embolisms, heart attacks. I know they’re rare, but I would never forgive myself if something happened.”

She considered him for a moment, smiling when she lifted a hand to squeeze his chin between her thumb and index finger.

“Okay,” she breathed. “Condoms it is then.”

-

“I can’t believe this!”

There was anger in her voice, a deep crease between her brows when she turned to look at Bucky, throwing her arms up in exasperation.

“You are one hundred years old,” she snapped. “How are you this fucking good at Mario Kart?!”

Bucky felt his lip twist at the corners, smirking as he flicked through the different racetracks on screen. They’d been playing for a little over an hour, and so far, Bucky had managed to beat her in every single round, scoring first place with a substantial lead each time.

“How about this snowy one next?”

At her silence, he turned to find a deadpan expression adorning her features.

“Yes, Bucky,” she said, words dripping with sarcasm. “Let’s do the fucking snow track.”

Bucky couldn’t stop his grin from widening, reaching out his human hand to pinch her cheek. “You’re adorable when you’re competitive.”

Swatting after his hand, Y/N harrumphed and turned back towards the TV. She sat straight-backed as a soldier with her legs crossed beneath her, while Bucky lay back against the couch with his legs stretched out on the plush ottoman before him.

“I’m just saying it doesn’t make sense,” she muttered to herself. “You pause Netflix movies by clicking the pause button with your cursor. You shouldn’t be this good at a video game.”

Bucky snorted, pushing at her shoulder with the back of his wrist, to which her cheeks lifted, betraying her grin despite her attempts to hide it.

“Today’s youth is rude,” Bucky muttered.

He thought he heard her giggle, which had warmth seep through his chest. But of course, it felt nothing as good as the rush of triumph he experienced at the large golden 1 appearing on his side of the screen after a few minutes spent racing in concentrated silence.

“Unbelievable,” Y/N half-yelled at the TV, waving her hands so much, Bucky feared for a moment that her controller would go flying into the screen. “Un. Fucking. Believable.”

While Bucky’s little green dinosaur celebrated by waving from his motorcycle, Bucky lifted a shoulder. “I’m a good driver.”

“This game in no way reflects real life driving skills.”

“Sure, it does.”

Y/N opened her mouth, and Bucky could tell that she was readying herself to argue. Before she could, however, he discarded his controller and wrapped his arm around her waist to pull her down towards him.

At once, she began to laugh, struggling against his grip as he attempted to wrestle the controller from her hands.

“You need a time out,” Bucky announced, dodging her elbows as she attempted to keep the controller out of his reach.

“One more!” she gasped, twisting and turning in Bucky’s hold, giggling as she did so. “I need to beat you at least once.”

“You’re gonna have a heart attack with that road rage of yours.”

She scoffed in mock outrage, but Bucky lowered his lips to hers before she could continue. She was laughing against him, wiggling when he finally got hold of her controller without looking, pushing at his shoulder when he began to scatter small kisses across her face.

But with every second, her resistance lessened, her body melting into his hold, her laughter softening into amused hums, until finally, her fingers curled into the hair on the back of Bucky’s head, and she met his lips with enthusiasm. Her controller—finally acquired, but already long forgotten—slipped from Bucky’s grip to clatter to the ground.

-

Bucky’s fingers pressed into the flesh of her hips, jaw tight and head tilted back into a pillow as the tension in his body slowly ebbed away to make room for a comfortable, cushy daze that warmed his body from head to toe.

She shook in his hands, the last of her breath rushing from her lungs in a hitched gasp. She tensed, thighs pressing firmly on the sides of his hips, and then it seemed her bones turned into something soft, pliable, as her body sank to his for her lips to rest in the crook of his neck.

For a moment, there was just their shared breathing to be heard—fast, choppy, warm. Bucky lifted his head only far enough to peer over her shoulder, watching the black metal of his hand detach itself from her skin without a mark left behind. Ever since those first times, those first bruises when he hadn’t yet gotten used to the strength of his arm in a context such as this, he paid extra attention.

With a soft groan, she pushed to her hands to look down at him with a glint in her eye. Bucky pushed the hair from her face, running his thumb along a swollen bottom lip, along the bridge of her nose, and the arch of her cheekbone.

Y/N pushed her face deeper into his palm, eyes slipping shut.

“I won’t ever get tired of this,” she breathed, to which Bucky smirked.

“I sure hope you won’t, dollface.”

Her nose scrunched at the drawled pet name. She’d always found it corny, but the corners of her lips curled higher nonetheless.

“I’m—”

“Hungry,” Bucky finished, sitting up with a groan of his own, one arm curled behind her back. “Comin’ right up.”

Y/N gasped in mock offence. “That’s not what I was going to say!”

Bucky rose a single brow, one arm pushing into the mattress behind him to keep him upright. She was always hungry after. Sometimes more, sometimes less. But most times ended in a late night snack shared on the couch, in the kitchen, in their bed.

“What were you going to say, then?”

She pursed her lips, letting a few seconds tick by silently, and Bucky knew then and there that she had nothing.

“I wanted to say,” she declared importantly, lifting her hands to hold his face between her palms. “That I’m in love with you.”

“I’m in love with you too, darlin’.” Bucky couldn’t help his rising cheeks. “I’m just gonna lay back down then—”

“And also,” she interrupted, pausing by kissing him deep enough for his mind to buzz when she pulled back with a satisfied smirk. “That I might just be a teensy bit hungry.”

A husky laugh slipped from Bucky’s throat, and with his arms wrapping around her tightly, he stood in a swift move, taking her with him as he went.

-

“So what I’m saying is,” Y/N said, swinging her legs as she lifted another piece of orange to her lips, chewing as she continued. “While I do agree that a beach vacation would be nice, I think going to Scotland would be a lot more interesting.”

Bucky kept his attention on the board before him, chopping tomatoes into somewhat uniform little cubes as he listened. She sat not far to his left on the countertop. The smell of citrus crawled up his nose.

“It rains a lot in Scotland.”

“Yes, but think of the castles. The highlands. The cows.”

“If we go to Portugal, we could lay in the sun all day. Swim. Fool around.”

An amused sound left her throat, her thumb pushing into the orange to break off another piece. She held it out to him, and Bucky leaned over to take it with his teeth.

“Fool around?” she giggled. “What are we, teenagers? Besides, we can do that anywhere. And it would be a lot cozier in a little hut in the highlands when it’s raining.”

Bucky weighed his head from side to side, considering her words.

“Think about it,” she added. “One is sweaty, sticky, and hot; the other is cozy and cuddly.”

“I honestly can’t tell which of those you think is the less desirable option.”

She laughed at that, chewing while Bucky scattered the tomatoes into the pan already holding a still liquid layer of egg, followed by shredded cheese, salt and pepper.

“I thought you didn’t like heat.”

“What made you think that?”

There was a moment of silence.

“Well, you always kick away the blankets, and you never notice when it’s too cold in a room. I thought it was part of the whole supersoldier shebang.”

Bucky rose a shoulder. “I don’t mind heat. Especially not when a pretty dame is involved.”

She burst out laughing at that, and Bucky smiled as he watched from the corner of his eye.

“Fine, fine. You win, Barnes,” she chuckled, offering him another piece of orange that he took with a quick kiss to the back of her hand. “I will fool around with you at the beach. But if we get kicked out of Portugal for public indecency, we’re going to the highlands.”

“Deal.”

After flipping the omelette with a skilled flick of the pan, Bucky folded it in half and placed it carefully on a nearby plate. Y/N beamed as he handed it to her.

“You’re the bestest,” she said, craning her neck for a kiss. “Thank you.”

Bucky stepped between her legs, opening his mouth when she offered him a forkful of omelette, already chewing herself. His palms found her thighs, her skin covered by a plush bathrobe to match his own in both colour and pattern.

The fist of Hydra, standing in a dimly lit kitchen with his love and an omelette. He could get used to this—he already had gotten used to this—and as he looked down at the black metal thumb he ran along the smooth skin of a thigh, he wondered how this limb had ever been used for something other than making omelettes for his love.

-

A/N: Can you believe it's been three whole years since I wrote a Bucky fic????? TF

HE NAKEYYY🤺

Spicy Brownies

18+ 

High Bucky x reader 

Remember Spicy Plants ? Here’s spicy brownies. Welcome to another crack fic. 

Imagine the first time Bucky tries edibles. He knew they would hit differently than smoking but he didn’t think much would happen so he had another. Then another. He was a super solider so he’d be fine. So he had one more. 

He was fine.

He was totally and completely fine. 

“Y/N!”

“Y/N Y/N Y/N!!”

“Oh my GOD!”

You and Steve sat in the living room, giving each other panicked looks hearing Bucky yelling from your shared bedroom. You both sprinted to the elevator and ran down the hall, bursting through the door, unsure of what was going on. 

“What is it Buck- oh my god” 

“What the hell…” Steve blinked, slowly backing away while you cocked your head to the side, observing a very naked Bucky looking at the mirror. 

“He nakeyyyy” Bucky whispered, staring at himself in the mirror wide eyed, cupping his own cheeks in utter shock. “Y/n, there’s a naked man in our room” 

Keep reading

My mann

༻ ♡ ༺

He’s never considered himself to be a religious man. Not in the 40’s and certainly not now. Though….he does feel the slight guilt when he’s with you. Like there really is a big man above wagging his finger because he’s dating a twenty something year old. Dating as a centurion just feels icky. Like touching something sticky, or stepping on a wad of gum. Even the word “boyfriend” makes him cringe. He’s far past the stage of “boy” and he’s sure it makes people expect some college aged brat, and not well…him. He’s a congressman now, dating at his age is…embarrassing to say the least. He feels less embarrassed when you’re giving him kisses in and attention, irrelevant. You got carded when he took you out, carded, he didn’t get checked—well he did just in a judgy sort of way.

He would’ve courted you if he had gotten the chance. Would’ve asked for permission and pick you up to go out to the theatre or to a carnival. Though things never seem to work out the way he wants. He’s rubbing your back as you lie on his chest scrolling on your phone, taking the time to show him something silly that made you laugh. The little tank top you’re wearing isn’t jarring, he’s gotten used to 21st century fashion. Still, he knows, had this been his early twenties it would really make his head spin. You regularly keep him on his toes.

He sighs, which makes you look up at him. “okay?” You ask, he smooths your hair down and nods. “Fine, little sleepy.” He murmurs, getting you to lay your head back down. “You wanna go to sleep?” You ask and he shakes his head, he feels like an old man enough, he doesn’t need a bedtime. You go back to lying down and he feels like a worm again. The softness and smoothness of your skin, god, you aren’t even calloused. Just never worked a day in your life have you? He wants to make sure you never have to. You’re not some midlife crisis, he’s ready to ride or die. Both probably soon, he doesn’t worry about it that much anymore, you’ve done a lot to ease his worries. He’s knows you aren’t a baby, you’re a modern lady, and he’s trying to be your modern man.

credit to @cursed-carmine for dividers

Small Circles

Summary : Bucky Barnes is still getting used to modern dating… and hates that you have to work with your exes.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x vigilante!reader (she/her)  / ex!various MCU anti-heroes/vigilantes x ex!reader

Warnings/tags : jealous!Bucky. Bi!Reader Hurt/comfort. Injury, references to violence, sex references. Reader used to be an anti-hero, and also used to date a lot of anti heroes. Angst/Fluff!!!!

Word count : 7.7k

Note : Retroactive jealousy is very common, and I definitely struggled with it when I first started dating my partner. I don’t really see it solved healthily in fiction, so I thought I’d write about it. I just finished moving in, so I will resume my series writing soon! And please, if you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

Bucky Barnes didn’t talk about his exes.

For one, they were from a time when women wore red lipstick like armour and wrote love letters to the men who might not make it back home. Two, in the 1940s, talking about past relationships was basically the equivalent to hanging your dirty laundry out in the street— and not just because most of them ended with him shipping out to war. Sex and feelings simply didn’t belong in polite company.

But here he was, in the 21st century, trying to navigate dating after missing eight decades of social evolution— trying to keep up with you. 

And god, he hadn’t stood a chance from the moment you first met.

You were the first person he met post-pardon that didn’t look at him like the sum of his past. Sam introduced you at a bar in D.C.—nothing fancy, just three tired veterans nursing drinks and pretending the world wasn’t still spinning out of control.

“She’s an old friend,” Sam said. “Used to serve with me in the air force. Then she went off grid and disappeared to be an antihero—”

“Vigilante,” you corrected, scoffing.

“Whatever,” Sam rolled his eyes, “But she’s retired now.”

“You’re prettier than the photos.” You gave Bucky a once-over. “Grumpier, too.”

He blinked, thrown off by how casual you were, and before he could respond, you leaned in and asked, “You always look like someone stole your puppy, or is that just for special occasions?”

Sam just laughed and walked off to grab another round, leaving Bucky staring at the woman who didn’t flinch when he said “Winter Soldier” like it was some contagious disease.

Instead, you talked and talked through the night. At one point, he was talking about his brainwashing, and you just leaned your elbow on the bar, eyes on his metal hand, and said, “I’ve done worse.”

It was the first time someone didn’t try to talk him out of his guilt. You didn’t say he was “more than his past.” 

You didn’t try to fix him. 

You just looked at him and recognised the survivor with blood under his nails and scars that never faded.

That night, he walked you home. It was supposed to be a formality, but you talked the whole way, about the desert missions you and Sam survived, about the ops you ran without orders, about why you quit the military, and the blurry line between heroes and people who did what had to be done.

“Why’d you retire?” he asked at your door.

“After the Blip, I helped the Avengers out. Did some good. Got tired of seeing my hands stained red, even when it was for the right reasons.” You shrugged.  “Figured if I couldn’t die, I might as well live. Got a nice place. Set up offshore accounts. Now I make pancakes and talk to my plants.”

He smiled. 

“What about you, Barnes?” You asked, leaning against the doorframe. “You ever get tired of the life?”

Fuck, he hadn’t flirted in decades. He wasn't even sure if he still knew how anymore. 

But with you, it was easy. It was awkward at first, sure, but you laughed every time he stumbled, and you never once made him feel like he was too broken to try.

He brought you flowers a week later. 

Tulips. 

He had said he read somewhere that they meant forgiveness. You didn’t ask who he was forgiving.

“I’m not afraid of your past,” you told him one night, sitting on the floor of your living room after Sam convinced him to take you out on a date. “Not when I’ve got one that would make priests faint.”

He looked at you then, and the walls he’d spent so many years building fell all at once, because you weren’t someone he had to hide from. 

You weren’t afraid of the blood on his hands, because you’d seen it on your own.

So you became a couple. 

Three years later, he still couldn’t believe how easily you loved him.

You were loud where he was quiet, open here he was closed— a perfect balance. 

You called his name like it wasn’t borrowed from another lifetime. And for the first time, he wasn’t just surviving— he was healing. 

He was planning a future. 

With you.

And then… Sam had to drag you back into the field.

That’s when everything started to unravel.

See, Sam had said it would be one mission.

"Just a quick assist," he told you, sliding a file across the table while Bucky sat beside you, arms crossed and already suspicious. "No big commitment. We just need someone who knows how to hit hard and get out clean. I know what you’re capable of,” Sam leaned back and crossed his arms, “And this has your style written all over it.”

“This isn’t just a mission,” You raised an eyebrow, flipping through the folder and studying the requirements. “This is a clusterfuck.”

“That’s why we need you,” Sam fogged. “Come on, for old times’ sake.”

You said yes. 

Later that night, Bucky looked at you like Sam had handed you a grenade. “You’re retired.”

You smiled sadly. “It’s just one job, Buck.”

And at the time, you meant it. 

You really did. 

You had an house together, the pancakes and the plants. 

You had Bucky. 

You had a life.

But then you got out there again—suited up, boots in the dirt, heart pounding like it used to—and it was like a switch was flipped in you.

Adrenaline was one hell of a drug.

You weren’t craving chaos or the violence. Not anymore. 

Unlike your antihero days, you didn’t kill this time. You’d made that choice before stepping onto the field. You weren’t going to be the person who solved problems with blood anymore.

But the mission lit something inside you all the same.

Perhaps it was control. Perhaps it was purpose. Or clarity. 

The world didn’t make much sense most of the time, but in the field, you knew exactly who you were.

So when you came back home after that mission—Bucky could already see it in your eyes.

“You’re going back,” he said flatly, watching you drop your gear in the hallway.

You shrugged, breathless, hair stuck to your forehead. “I mean… yeah. I missed it. But I’m not that person anymore, Buck. No killing. Just in and out. Recon only. You know the drill.”

Bucky didn’t answer. 

Because part of him was proud. You’d stepped back into that world on your terms.

But another part of him… was afraid of who you were behind the mask.

—

The first sign was Matt Murdock.

It was your and Bucky’s first mission together since you’d unretired. Sam had assigned a simple intel grab in Hell’s Kitchen. You needed a legal inside man, someone who knew the network by heart, and Sam had said, “You still got a contact in New York, right?”

That’s how you and Bucky ended up across the table from Matt in his firm, the three of you tucked into a room that smelled like paper and secrets.

From the moment you walked in, there was chemistry— it wasn’t active, nor was it inappropriate, but it was present. 

Bucky could see it in the way Matt tilted his head to the sound of your laugh, how your posture relaxed like muscle memory. It was subtle, but it was there.

“You told him,” he said with a small smile. He could hear it in Bucky’s heartbeat. “About my… other job.”

You glanced at Bucky, who was stiff beside you. “Yeah,” you said. 

Matt hummed. That told him more than it should. “You must be serious about him, then.”

You just nodded, infuriatingly calm and confident. “I am.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. He didn’t trust himself to, especially because Matt’s voice was too casual when he added, “We used to be a thing, her and I.”

It wasn’t a dig. It wasn’t even smug. But it was there. As far as Bucky was concerned, it was a punchline with no joke attached.

You shrugged as the meeting wrapped, grabbing your jacket. 

“His job and crime fighting? No time for me,” you whispered an explanation on your way out. 

But it was the way you said it— the lack of apology. It was the way you weren’t surprised your old flame was part of the mission. 

“You never told me he was your ex,” Bucky mumbled under his breath. 

“We never had to meet any of my exes in retirement,” you shrugged.

That night, Bucky lay awake in your bed, staring at the ceiling while your body curled toward his. 

But all he could think about was Matt fucking Murdock—Daredevil. Lawyer by day, masked vigilante by night. Another man who had kissed you, fought beside you, known you in a world Bucky still wasn’t sure he fully belonged in.

What the hell.

This was the first time you’d fought side by side. The first time he saw how natural you were when the mask slipped back on. And suddenly, Bucky was wondering if he was the only one still trying to catch up.

—

The conversation about Yelena came over coffee. 

It was one of those late mornings, with sunlight spilling through the window of your kitchen, his metal fingers on your knee. You were sitting close, like always, thighs touching under the table, his hoodie drowning your body in a sense of safety. 

Bucky was scrolling through contacts Sam had floated for upcoming intel work, casually tossing out names. “Yelena Belova might be a good person to reach out to for our next mission. She’s low-profile, knows how to stay off the radar.”

He didn’t even look up when he said it, but you froze, coffee cup hovering in the air, just long enough for him to notice.

“Well… yeah. I haven’t seen her since…”

His head tilted slightly. “Since what?”

He tried to keep his voice neutral. But it came out just a little too sharp, like it scraped on the way out.

You hesitated, a little sheepish. “Since Paris. There was a caper. Messy one. We got out clean, but… one thing led to another.”

Oh.

He knew you were bi, so that wasn’t a surprise. But he never expected that knowledge to ever come with knowing names, too. 

Another sip of coffee wouldn’t fix the knot in Bucky’s stomach, but he took one anyway. It gave him something to do besides look at you—at the woman he’d fallen in love with, who kissed him in the dark and said “I love you” every night.

He nodded pretending it was fine. Pretending it didn’t sting.

But it did. Because it was another name from the same small, bloodstained circle of vigilantes and morally gray heroes. 

He didn’t realise how many people you’d still work with were the same people you’d trusted with your body before you ever handed Bucky your heart.

You were experienced. Not in a shameful way, but you'd lived. You’d fought and fucked and fled and loved in all the places Bucky had never dared go. And now you were here—his—but he couldn’t stop that stupid thought in the back of his head:

Where do I even fit in the story?

You reached for his hand, your thumb brushing the metal knuckles like it was second nature. You leaned in, pressing a kiss to his temple, voice soft.

“She didn’t mean anything long-term,” you reassured him.

He wanted to believe that settled it. He wanted to lean into you, like he always did, but he froze—just for a moment. It was a childish, stupid insecurity rearing up where your warmth used to melt it down.

And Bucky hated that, even now, three years deep in love with you, he still sometimes felt like the last one to the party.

—

Then came London, and of course, Moon Knight.

It was supposed to be a clean extraction—intel swap, quick in and out. You and Bucky were working in sync like you'd done this a few times now. 

There were no hiccups, until he showed up.

You spotted him across the plaza first— casual clothes that you knew could turn into a divine suit any second, and a woman at his side. You froze instinctively, and Bucky felt it immediately.

The guy was weird in that charming, cryptic way, like he might shake your hand or break your nose, depending on what time of day it was. And you smiled at him. 

“London is always full of surprises,” you said as the man approached. You turned your attention to the two people now standing before you.

“Who am I talking to?” you asked, casual on the surface, but your eyes scanned him like they used to.

“Relax, it’s Marc.” The man gave a small, tired smile. “This is Layla.”

“Layla,” you repeated. “Nice to meet you.”

“We’re married,” Marc added.

“Good for you!” You beamed genuinely. “Seriously, never thought I’d see the day. This is my boyfriend. Bucky— Marc and I used to… date. A lifetime ago.”

Bucky gave a tight nod, hands in his pockets. “Of course you did,” he muttered under his breath.

Marc caught it. So did you. You shot Bucky a really? look, but Layla just laughed, clearly unfazed. She greeted you like she’d known about you already, because you were clearly another name Marc had mentioned.

“So… does he still talk to Khonshu in the bathroom?” you asked Layla with a crooked grin.

“All the time,” Layla said dryly. “Once, I came in to see the bathtub trashed. He said it was because of Khonshu. At least Tawaret isn’t that demanding.”

Bucky shifted uncomfortably. 

“Yeah, we weren’t all superheroes with government contracts,” Marc added, trying to joke, but there. “Some of us were just bleeding in alleyways hoping the gods were paying attention.”

Bucky wasn’t sure if that was a dig. He also wasn’t sure how to respond. Was there a polite way to talk to your girlfriend’s ex who serves a moon god and still too-casual wife who served the goddess of fertility?

You tried to smooth it over, looping your arm through Bucky’s. But he was still stuck on the fact that you had dated this man—this strange, fractured vigilante with too many voices and a ring on his finger now. You’d been part of his chaos once, too.

And that he hated that Layla was okay with it, hated that Layla was secure— because fuck, if it didn’t make him feel bad. That’s who he should be. 

He shouldn’t be bothered by any of this. But he couldn't help it, he was.

Bucky couldn’t help but feel like he was the only one trying to learn how to stand still while everyone else had already danced through the fire and survived.

He was old-fashioned. He didn’t know how to joke about weird missions with exes or that time you almost died in a tomb under the Nile.

You, on the other hand, just kept moving forward. 

And Bucky loved you—but in that moment, he felt like the odd one out in a room he hadn’t realised he was still learning to walk through.

—

Then Nebula arrived on earth, as she always did every couple of years. It was a routine visit.

She talked to Sam for a while to exchange intel, but after that… the lines between work and play got blurred.

Sam had dragged you and Bucky to a rooftop bar, insisting that even people with kill counts needed to let loose. Nebula was tagging along. She wasn’t the nightlife type, but she was making an effort to try Earth customs.

So, there you were, nursing a coke, while Bucky was ordering himself another drink. 

He was watching you across the room, laughing at something Sam had said when Nebula slid in next to you.

She said no greetings. No small talk. Just a hand on your thigh and a blunt, “Are we doing this again?”

Bucky could hear that, thanks to his enhanced hearing.

You choked slightly on your drink, startled but not shocked. You swatted her hand off gently, not unkind, but firm.

“I have a boyfriend now,” you said with a smile. You tipped your head toward Bucky’s direction. “Long-term.”

She blinked, entirely unaffected. “What’s that like?”

Bucky was across the room, eyes fixed on you. His knuckles were white around his glass.

Later, when you were alone again, Bucky asked, “You…  and her?”

You curled up beside him on the couch, his vibranium arm slung heavy over your shoulders. You kissed his jaw once, then the corner of his mouth. “It was during the Blip, when she went to Earth a lot more,” you said casually, “Long-distance didn’t work. It… happened a couple times. Nothing serious.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away.

Nothing serious.

The words sat in his gut like a stone.

That was what got him. Not that it happened. Not that you’d been with someone else. He knew—internally, logically—that he wasn’t your first. But that phrase stuck like a splinter under his skin.

Nothing serious.

You said it so easily. That sharing a bed, even briefly, didn’t matter as long as it wasn’t long-term.

But Bucky came from a different world. One where people didn’t talk about past lovers. Where something like a hand on a thigh meant you were hers.

And now here he was—three years in, in love with a woman who kissed him like he hung the moon and yet casually mentioned flings with alien assassins.

He didn’t say anything that night, but pulled you in closer and let you fall asleep on his chest.

But he stayed awake long after, staring at the ceiling.

You were his peace. 

But when it came to your past, he felt like a stranger in your house. 

—

That month after, you came home flushed with mission energy, shedding your jacket before the door had even shut.

“She’s still as annoying as ever,” you said, grinning. “Yelena. She hasn’t changed. Made me climb five flights of a condemned building instead of going around because it was ‘more fun.’ See, this is why it would have never worked out between us.”

You were buzzing— adrenaline and nostalgia glowing in you. Bucky didn’t match your energy.

He stood in the kitchen silently as he rinsed a mug. You didn’t notice at first. Or maybe you did, but you didn’t think anything of it until he set the mug down so hard, it cracked down the middle.

“You ever gonna tell me how many of these people you’ve actually slept with?”

You froze mid-step. “What?”

He turned, tense as a live wire. “Every time we go out in the field, you’ve got history with someone. Is there anyone we’ve worked with who hasn’t had a piece of you?”

Whoa. Where did this come from? 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

He didn’t back down. “I’m serious. Daredevil. Moon Knight. Nebula. Yelena. I can’t take two steps into a mission without watching someone look at you like they already know how you sound in bed.”

You blinked, stunned. “Is that what this is about? You’re jealous?”

“I’m not jealous,” he snapped. “I’m—”

“You are,” you cut in. “And possessive, apparently.”

He didn’t deny it. “I just— I can’t keep pretending like this doesn’t eat at me. I walk into a room with you and wonder who the hell knows you better than I do.”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling. “You never told me this bothered you.”

“Well, I didn’t know half this shit until the last few months!” he barked. “Because you’re so damn casual about it. ‘Oh yeah, we hooked up a few times,’ like it’s a joke—like it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Because it didn’t, Bucky!” you shouted back. “Because none of them were you. None of them lasted. You’re the only one I gave three years of my life to, and you’re standing here acting like I cheated on you with my past.”

He didn’t respond. 

And something inside you broke a little.

“I don’t know what you want me to do,” you said, smaller now. “Erase it? Lie? Pretend I lived like a nun until you came along?”

“I want to not feel like I’m sharing you with half the damn underground,” he looked down, teeth grinding.

You let out a bitter laugh. “Then maybe you should’ve picked someone from your own century.”

That landed like a slap. 

You shook your head. “We’ve got an early mission tomorrow. Get some rest.”

Without waiting for another word, you grabbed a pillow from the couch and walked down the hall.

You slept in the second bedroom that night.

You didn’t cry. But god, it hurt.

And Bucky sat awake in the kitchen for hours, guilt and resentment twisted in his chest like barbed wire, because he knew none of what he said was fair. 

But the feelings he felt were still real. And they were starting to rot.

—

In the morning, you two were so quiet still that every small sound felt amplified: the click of your knife sliding into your boot, the zip of your jacket, the dull thud of your holster being strapped across your chest.

Your movements were efficient, muscle memory from years of knowing how to armour up always kicking in.

Across the room, Bucky stood still, with his gear slung half-forgotten over his metal arm. His eyes were rimmed with red, dark bruises blooming underneath from a night without sleep, but he had a job to do, so he was awake anyway. 

“Y’know…” He finally said. “You didn’t have to sleep in the other room.”

You fastened the last strap on your thigh holster and glanced at him. “Didn’t feel like pretending we were okay.”

You saw it—the slight flinch in his muscles, the way he looked down like the floor might offer a better answer than anything in his own damn head.

“You think I don’t know we’re not okay?” he said, quieter this time. “You think I didn’t lay awake wishing I could take it back?”

“Then why’d you say it?” you snapped, finally turning to face him. 

Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed it immediately. He had no excuses.

“You didn’t ask. You never asked.” You shook your head, biting down the lump in your throat. “You just… threw it in my face like it was supposed to shame me. Like I was a toy being passed around!”

He stepped forward, desperate now. “I wasn’t trying to shame you, I— I was pissed, okay? I was stupid. I saw the way Matt looked at you, and then Nebula, and—Christ—Marc—”

“They were my exes, Bucky!” You raised your voice, “what do you want me to do? Never speak to them again? I would have no help in this line of work!”

“Doesn’t matter!” he snapped, frustration boiling over. “BecauseI feel like I’m just the guy keeping your seat warm.”

You stared at him, throat tight. “That’s what you think I’m doing? Killing time?”

“No,” he said, gentler now. “No. I know you love me. I know.” His voice cracked. “But I come from a time where no one talks about this kind of stuff. Where men didn’t have to wonder how many people their girl used to patch up in back alleys and kiss between fights.”

“Well guess what, Bucky,” you said, voice trembling. “I didn’t get the luxury of going to swing bars and holding hands on Coney Island. I got blood and war and figuring out how to survive without falling apart. I didn’t know I was going to make it past 25. And then you came along. You—you, James—you made me realise some things last. And now you're throwing it in my face because what? You didn’t like the guest list to my past?”

He looked like you’d shot him.

But there wasn’t time to let the silence fester again—your comms buzzed with an urgent ping from Sam.

The mission. 

You turned toward the door.

“Let’s just get through today,” you said, voice brittle. “We’ll figure the rest out after.”

You walked out first.

And this time, Bucky followed—not because he knew what to say, but because even after everything, he couldn’t stand not being by your side.

—

The op was supposed to be easy.

But nothing was easy when you were angry.

You and Bucky moved like soldiers, but not like partners—not like you usually did. 

You were out of sync, one heartbeat off, one glance too short. One command left unsaid because your pride wouldn’t let either of you speak first.

That got you ambushed.

Suddenly, you were ducking behind crumbling concrete, the walls of the building already groaning as a blast from beneath shook the foundations.

Gunfire rained down the stairwell.

Bucky shielded you without thinking, metal arm flashing as he tore through two men, fast and efficient—but not fast enough.

A stray bullet lodged  itself in you.

You screamed.

“Goddammit!” you hissed, hand pressing to your shoulder as blood spread fast. “Fucking—shit!”

Bucky was already beside you, crouched low, blue eyes wide and terrified. “You’re hit.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

You leaned against the wall, blood soaking through your suit too fast, pooling in your glove as you applied pressure. Your vision blurred, but you forced yourself to stay upright. 

“We have to move,” you growled, pushing off the wall. “Extraction’s too far, comms are jammed.”

“Then tell me where to take you,” Bucky said, already moving to sling your arm over his shoulder. “You’re losing blood.”

You paused, teeth clenched so hard your jaw hurt. You did know someone in the vicinity. “You’re gonna hate this.”

“Tell me anyway.”

You guided him three blocks through the back alleys of the city, stumbling past broken windows, flickering lights, and blood left behind like breadcrumbs. You turned down a shadowed stairwell, and at the end of the corridor was a steel door. 

You raised your good hand and knocked: four slow, two fast.

A secret code. 

Bucky stiffened beside you. “You have a safehouse down here?”

“Not mine…” you mumbled under your breath. 

The door swung open, and there he was.

Frank Castle.

Bucky had heard about him— The Punisher.

He looked at you. Then at Bucky.

Then at your shoulder. “You’re bleeding.”

“I know,” you muttered through gritted teeth. “Let me in.”

Frank stepped aside immediately, grabbing you by the waist like it was second nature. Bucky’s hand was still on you. Neither man let go.

“Nice to see you, too,” Frank said with a worried frown.

Bucky followed, staring at Frank like he was a ghost come to life—except this ghost had callouses, bruises, and knew your name too well.

“You’ve got him on speed dial?” Bucky bit out.

You sank down on the battered couch as Frank pulled out a med kit and started cutting through your gear. “I said you’d hate it.”

Frank smirked without looking up. “Still dramatic, huh?”

“She’s bleeding,” Bucky growled, stepping in. “Maybe shut the fuck up and do something useful.”

“Relax, soldier.” Frank didn’t blink. “I’ve patched her up worse.”

Bucky's jaw twitched. "Worse?"

You groaned. “Please. Not now.”

But it was already too late— you could smell the testosterone and unfinished history. 

Frank’s hands were on you. Bucky’s heart was in his throat. He saw the way Frank looked at you— like he knew what your skin felt like already. 

“You two…” Bucky started, then stopped. His voice was dangerously low. “You fucked, didn’t you?”

Frank looked up. “We didn’t bake cookies.”

Bucky surged forward. “I swear to God—”

“Both of you!” you barked. “Enough!”

Frank didn’t flinch. He just scoffed under his breath and turned back to your shoulder, grabbing a syringe from the med kit and tearing open a pack of gauze with his teeth. 

“Didn’t realize you were dating the Winter Soldier,” Frank muttered, injecting the numbing agent into the skin around your wound. “Last time I saw you, you were with that blonde Widow chick. Got a thing for Russians now, pretty girl?”

Your eyes fluttered shut for a second. Pain, exhaustion, and frustration welled up inside. “Shut the fuck up, Frank.”

“I’m not Russian,” Bucky snapped before he could stop himself.

Frank glanced over his shoulder. “That’s not what I heard.”

Bucky stepped closer, chest heaving. “You want to test what I’ve got in common with the Red Room, Castle?”

“Easy,” Frank shook his head, “just sayin’. She always did have a type.”

That almost did it.

Bucky’s fists curled at his sides. His breath came faster. He saw red— and for a split second, he was ten seconds away from tearing Frank’s smug face off. 

But then… he heard your soft whimper. It was a hiss of pain. Your head tipped  back against the couch, eyes fluttering as the blood loss started to catch up. 

And suddenly, Bucky remembered why he was here. What really mattered.

You.

He was at your side in an instant, kneeling by the couch as Frank packed the wound and started stitching. You were grunting, your fingers twitching for something to hold.

Bucky took your hand.

You gripped him like he was the only thing tethering you to this world.

Frank worked without saying much after that. The tension between him and Bucky didn’t fade—it settled like a landmine they both agreed not to step on. For now.

“Got anything for the pain?” Bucky asked, looking toward the dingy kitchen.

Frank jerked his chin. “Cabinet over the fridge. Bottles labeled in red are painkillers. Other colors are mine.”

Bucky found what he needed. Got the pills into you with a cracked water bottle. He sat by your side while you slowly went limp under the weight of the drugs.

You passed out with your head in his hands. He brushed the hair from your face with a touch so gentle it made Frank’s heart ache.

—

An hour later, Bucky stood at the tiny sink in Frank’s dimly lit bathroom, water running red as he scrubbed blood from his hands. 

The cracked mirror above the sink showed him a version of himself he didn’t like: wild eyes, tired lines on his forehead, and blood smeared up to his wrists.

This was your blood.

He gritted his teeth, pressing his palms harder under the water like he could scrub away his sins, like he could rewind time just by cleaning fast enough.

You got shot because we weren’t focused. He thought to himself. Because I couldn’t shut my mouth. Because I couldn’t let go of the past. Because I just had to pick a fight.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

You had every right to have a past. You told him, over and over, that you chose him.

But it hadn’t been enough in the moment. 

And now…

Now you were unconscious on Frank Castle’s couch with stitches in your shoulder, and he was standing in a stranger’s bathroom washing away the evidence of his own failure.

He slammed the faucet off and leaned heavily on the sink, breathing hard. For a moment, he just stared at himself. The blood was gone, but the shame still clung to him like a second skin.

“Get a grip,” he said to his reflection.

He grabbed a towel and dried his hands.

Behind him, the door creaked open. He didn’t have to turn around to know it was Frank.

“You done crying in there, Barnes?”

Bucky met his own bloodshot eyes in the mirror and took a deep breath. When he stepped back out, Frank was already cracking open two beers— one slid across the counter toward him like a peace offering.

“Don’t drink on missions,” Bucky said, even though alcohol didn’t give him anything to work with. 

“We’re not on a mission anymore.” Frank shrugged.  “You’re in my house. She’s breathing. “Take the fuckin’ beer.”

Bucky hesitated, but still sat down.

He cracked it open and drank in silence.

Frank leaned back, arms crossed, smiling like he’d already written this whole scene in his head.

“So,” Frank said. “How’s that working out for you?”

Bucky shot him a sideways glare. “You mean her?”

Frank raised an eyebrow. “No, I meant your bloodstained fashion choices. Yeah, I mean her.”

Bucky drank again. “Fine.”

“That right?” Frank said, not buying it for a second. “Cuz she showed up bleeding out on my doorstep and you looked two seconds from throwing me through a wall.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “You didn’t exactly help.”

Frank’s grin widened. “What, calling you soldier? That’s what you are, ain’t it?”

Bucky didn’t answer. 

Both of them drank.

The air between them stayed hot, but not explosive. 

Frank looked toward the back room, where you were still out cold. The lines of his mouth softened slightly, the smirk dying in the corner of his mouth.

“She still talk in her sleep?”

Bucky glanced at him. “Sometimes.”

“Used to scare the shit out of me. She’d mumble names. Codes. Orders. She’d say something about Wilson or about how Riley’s in danger. Good ol’ air force PTSD,” Frank nodded, “One time she said my name and thrashed so hard I thought she was gonna kill me in her sleep.”

Bucky didn’t respond.

“She doesn’t talk.. about you,” Bucky said finally. His voice was low, eyes locked on the floor. “I didn’t even know you two…”

Frank shook his head. “Didn’t bake cookies,” he echoed.

“Yeah. Got it.”

They let another beat of silence fester.

“You loved her?” Bucky asked, even though he didn’t really want to know the answer.

“I did,” Frank took a sip, but didn’t look at him. “Still do. Not the same way, though.”

Bucky’s hand tightened around the bottle. “What the hell does that mean?”

Frank finally looked at him. No sarcasm now, just tired honesty.

“I don’t know if she told you about my… past. But after all that happened to me, I didn’t think I was capable of it again. I was half dead. Barely human. And then she showed up and saw through all the bullshit. And she stayed.”

Bucky was listening. Processing.

“She taught me how to feel again. Real shit. Not just rage. Not just grief.” Frank rubbed the back of his neck, like the memory itched. “She used to tell me I wasn’t broken, just dented. I believed her.”

“So what happened?”

Frank leaned back, eyes on the cracked ceiling.

“She fed my flame and I fed her violence. I knew if she kept me around, she’d forget what peace felt like. So I ended it.”

That made Bucky’s stomach twist. He hated how much of that felt familiar. 

Frank glanced toward the couch where you were still curled in sleep, bandages soaked but holding. “She deserves better than that.”

“She deserves someone who doesn’t get jealous of her past,” Bucky muttered.

“You and me both,” Frank chuckled under his breath. “I used to hate that I shared an ex with Red,” Frank admitted. Bucky could just assume he was talking about Daredevil. “But it’s a small world. Small circle. Vigilantes fuck around. You think we go home to nice houses and clean sheets?”

Bucky said nothing. Because now, you did. 

“How long you two been together?” Frank asked, casual.

Bucky didn’t answer right away. Just watched the light shift across the floor as the old ceiling fan spun overhead. Then, finally, “Three years.”

Frank’s eyebrows lifted. “Three?”

He let out a low whistle and took a sip. “Well, I’ll be damned. That’s like… eight decades in vigilante time.”

Bucky didn’t smile, but nodded once.

“Congratulations,” Frank tilted his beer toward him in a mock toast. “Longest relationship I ever seen her in. Not that I was taking notes or anything, but…” He grinned. “I knew all the flings. None of ‘em made it past a year. Most of them burned out around month ten.”

Bucky shifted, fist clenched, but not as harsh as before. “I’ve met a few of them. Or… worked with ‘em.”

Frank chuckled. “Bet that’s fun.”

“Not really.”

Frank scoffed. “Y’know,” he said, “you don’t gotta worry about me. Or any of the rest of us.”

Bucky looked at him sideways. “Yeah?”

Frank nodded toward the living room, where you were sleeping under a threadbare blanket, one leg hanging off the side of the couch.

“She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t love you. Still a bit of a dick when she’s mad, but who isn’t? She chose you. That woman’s got trust issues deeper than the fuckin’ ocean, but she lets you near her when she’s bleeding?” He shook his head. “That’s something, man.”

Bucky’s hand curled loosely around the bottle. “Doesn’t stop the way it feels sometimes. Like I’m… following ghosts.”

Frank leaned against the counter, arms folded, studying him. “You’re not a ghost to her.”

“Feels like I am.”

“Then stop acting like one.”

That hit a little deeper than Bucky expected. He looked away.

“You’re not me,” Frank said finally. “And that’s a good thing.”

Bucky blinked. Looked up.

Frank gestured between them. “You know what I gave her? Rage. Like I said, we fed each other’s worst instincts.” He took a breath. “You give her something I couldn’t: Peace.”

Bucky scoffed, a bitter little noise. “Peace? You should see the way we’ve been acting lately?”

Frank shrugged. “Fights happen. Especially with her.” He smirked. “But she came here because she trusted you to carry her when she couldn’t stand. That’s what counts.”

Bucky  took a sip of the beer, but didn’t really taste it. He still felt the heat of the moment in his chest.

Frank tilted his bottle toward him again. “You love her?”

“More than anything.”

“Then hold on to that.” Frank’s voice was sincere. “Cause’ if two broken people can get their shit together and still choose each other every damn day, that’s more than most people get.”

They sat in silence for a while, before eventually, Frank raised his bottle one more time. “To the girl who survived all of us.”

Bucky hesitated—then tapped his bottle gently against Frank’s.

“To the girl who made us feel human again,” he said.

They drank.

In the back of the room, you shifted in your sleep, muttered something under your breath, then went still again.

Frank leaned back. “Think she’s gonna be pissed when she finds out we bonded?”

Bucky found himself a smile— just a little. “Probably.”

—

The pain was dull when you woke up—  more like a memory than a wound, pulsing behind your bones in sync with your heartbeat. Your shoulder throbbed under tight bandages.

You cracked your eyes open, vision swimming in the dim light. The ceiling was warped and water-stained, familiar in the worst way, lit only by the flicker of a busted lamp somewhere in the room. The air smelled like old cigarette smoke, sweat, and gun oil.

You remembered where you were. Frank Castle’s safehouse.

You felt a body pressing against your side. 

Bucky.

He was crouched beside the couch, looking like he’d been glued to your side for hours— maybe longer. His hair was a mess, flattened in places from where he’d run his hands through it on repeat. 

“Hey,” he greeted, rough around the edges but laced with so much affection it you felt it more than you felt the wound. He leaned in and kissed your forehead, “You okay?”

Your lips twitched into a ghost of a smile. You tilted your head just enough to brush your mouth against his in return, your voice barely above a whisper. “Mmhmm.”

Behind you, someone cleared their throat.

You glanced past Bucky, and there was Frank— arms crossed, watching the two of you with a look that wasn’t quite judgment and wasn’t quite amusement either. 

It looked like... approval.

Bucky glanced over his shoulder, but shifted closer to you anyways. His hand brushed your hair back with the softest care, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“We gotta go, yeah, doll?” he said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

You winced as you shifted upright, his hand already sliding under your good arm. You leaned into him without hesitation. 

“Yeah,” you exhaled, trying to shake the fog from your head. “Just... give me a sec.”

You rested your forehead against his shoulder for a moment, letting the world settle, then pushed yourself upright again. 

“Thanks, Frank,” you managed, voice rough but sincere. “For the whole... keeping me alive thing.”

His mouth curved upward at the corner. “Anytime, pretty girl.”

The words had barely left his mouth before Bucky’s voice cut through the room— “Don’t call her that.”

But.. there was a hint of playfulness in his voice.

Frank’s brow ticked up, amised. “Relax, soldier. It’s a nickname, not a ring.”

“She’s not yours to nickname.”

You let out a low groan, rubbing your hand over your face. “Jesus Christ. I almost died and you two are busy measuring dicks?”

Frank huffed a small laugh. “Still got that attitude, I see.”

Bucky glanced down at you, brushing your knuckles lightly with his thumb. “Good. Means you’re still alive.”

Frank pushed off the doorway, “She’ll outlive both of us at this rate.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, his hand never leaving yours. “That’s the plan.”

You leaned against him, blinking up at the two men, brow furrowing as the realisation finally hit. 

These weren’t snide remarks. This was… banter. 

They weren’t trying to kill each other.

“What the hell…” you mumbled. “You two friends now?”

Bucky looked down at you, shrugging. “Had a long night.”

Frank smirked from across the room, raising an eyebrow. “And a few beers.”

You stared between them, utterly baffled. “The fuck did I miss?”

—

The drive back was a quiet haze of streetlights. You slumped in the passenger seat, curled toward the window, your shoulder still aching beneath layers of gauze. 

When he pulled up to your shared home, Bucky came around to your side before you could even try to open the door. He lifted you again like you weighed nothing and carried you into the apartment without saying a word.

He laid you gently on the couch, brushing the hair from your face as you settled back into the cushions. His fingers lingered on your cheek, “I’ll get your painkillers,” he said.

You let your eyes follow him as he crossed to the kitchen, retrieved a glass of water, and returned with a small pill in his palm.

“Small dose,” he warned, crouching beside you again. “We’re spacing them out.”

You took it, swallowed, then leaned your head back and sighed. You tilted your head toward him.

“So… you and Frank buddies now?”

Bucky snorted softly, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“But you talked.”

“Yeah,” He confirmed. “We talked.”

You raised a brow, mildly impressed. “And you didn’t smash each other’s face in?”

Bucky chuckled. “Came close.”

You let a beat of silence pass between you. 

Then you finally said, “I’m sorry.”

His eyes flicked back to you. 

“I should’ve seen how uncomfortable you were,” you admitted. “I… I just didn't think the exes would be a sore spot.”

“I’m sorry, too.” He reached up, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “I let all that shit build up. That’s not on you.”

“Still… I could’ve talked to you about all of it before I got back into the field.” You swallowed. “I… I just didn’t want you to see me differently.”

“I do see you differently,” he said quietly.

Your stomach twisted.

“But not in a bad way,” he added quickly. “Your past… is just that. Frank helped me see that.”

You blinked fast, trying not to cry. “But it keeps finding me.”

“I know,” he said. 

You gave him a sad smile and a kiss on the corner of his mouth. “I’m not going anywhere, Bucky. You’re my now. You’re my future. You're it.”

His breath caught, and he looked at you like you’d just pulled him out of the deepest part of the ocean.

He leaned in and kissed you, slow and soft and sweet. It was the kind of kiss that tasted like forgiveness, because he was still learning what it meant to be loved out loud by someone so unfiltered, by someone with nothing to hide.

You stayed pressed againsthim for a long time, your hand in his hair, his forehead against yours.

Eventually, he pulled back and smiled faintly. 

He stood, walking toward the kitchen. “I’m making you hot chocolate.”

You blinked after him. “Are you serious?”

“You want marshmallows?”

“Obviously.”

He got up, and from the kitchen, you could hear Bucky moving around — the clink of the saucepan on the stove, the rustle of a cocoa tin being opened, the faint hiss of milk heating as he stirred. 

You sank deeper into the couch, letting the ache in your shoulder fade into the background.

Your eyes drifted half-shut, but then you heard it.

A ding from beside you on the couch.

You blinked, turning your head slightly, and there it was — Bucky’s phone lighting up on the cushion, his name glowing on the lock screen along with the preview of a new text.

Frank Castle.

Of course it was Frank.

Curiosity got the better of you, and your eyes skimmed the message: "If you wanna give your pretty girl a break and need someone who doesn’t pull his punches on a mission, give me a call, Barnes. And I’ll be there."

You smiled — part fond, part exasperated — and the warmth in your chest didn’t dim.

Before you could say anything, Bucky’s voice floated over from the kitchen, teasing, “You looking at my phone, doll?”

You glanced toward him, two mugs cradled in his hands as he walked towards you.

“Didn’t know you and Frank exchanged numbers,” You lifted your brows. “He says he’s offering his services.”

Bucky lowered himself onto the couch beside you, placing the mug carefully into your hand.

Bucky let out a quiet snort, shaking his head as he picked up the phone and read it for himself. His thumb hovered over the reply button, but he didn’t type anything right away.

“At least,” he muttered under his breath, “he’s now calling you my pretty girl.”

You leaned your head toward him, letting it rest against his shoulder.

“Damn right I am,” you mumbled fondly.

Damn right you are. 

–end.

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@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

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@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

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@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

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@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

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@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23

nowhere for you to stay (bucky barnes x reader)

content warnings: angst, allusions to depression (bucky, not reader), sad bucky, mental health, lack of self-care, female reader, this is basically just me venting about the terrible ending that they gave steve (he didn’t deserve this and neither did bucky nor me)  word count: 1.5k a/n: so, i promise, i really am trying to finish my wips, but this came to me today while listening to renegade, also sorry for being m.i.a. for like three weeks but I spent easter with my family and had to recharge lol and then uni started again, so that kinda kicked my ass a little also, i watched thunderbolts* yesterday and it was great!!! (dw, this is spoiler-free)

You knocked on his door – three sharp, distinct sounds – and waited.  For a few seconds you entertained the thought that Bucky wasn’t home. That he was out and about, doing something with his life. Maybe he had picked himself up and gone to the gym, or maybe he had finally deleted the various food delivery apps and instead had gone grocery shopping. But there was a faint whirring, locked behind the old wooden door to his apartment, a sound that belonged to a light turned on. The complex in which Bucky resided was old – not as old as the man himself but certainly bordering on it. Windows creaked when the wind was strong, the lighting flickered, and pipes groaned during the coldest months.   He had moved here after returning from Wakanda and you had helped him set up his living space. You had begged and pleaded with him to rent a place closer to you, or to maybe even move in with you. But he had just shook his head and had looked at you with those heartbroken, empty eyes that seemed a little less blue and a little more grey since Steve was gone. So, you had helped carry the sparse amount of furniture and décor he had up to the fourth-floor apartment, had sorted spice containers of which you were sure that he hadn’t used them yet and had presented Bucky with a plant as a housewarming gift. He had smiled sadly and thanked you and you had known that the plant was not going to make it more than a week. Every day you called, every day he answered – for a limited time. Sometimes, the exchange was as short as thirty seconds, just enough for you to hear that he was still alive and not planning on changing that.  Once a week, on Saturdays, you took the subway to visit him, to stay with him for a few hours. You never managed to convince him to get out of the apartment with you but at least you saw him.  The last week had been different. He hadn’t answered your calls, only sent short messages (“I’m fine – can’t talk right now” or “let me call you back later”) and your heart ached every time the busy signal had echoed from your speaker. Of course, you hoped that it meant that he was actually busy, distracted, doing something.  But the faint buzz of a burning lamp in his apartment told you that he was home. No matter what, Bucky always made sure to turn off all lights and close all windows before he left his place, so he must have been ignoring the knocking.  To his credit, you were a day earlier than usual. It was Friday instead of Saturday, and you hadn’t announced yourself either, so he wasn’t expecting you. The silence, the unanswered calls had given you anxiety induced stomach pains, so you had taken the day off from work and had gotten an Uber to his place.

You knocked again and lightly cleared your throat – a chance for Bucky’s enhanced hearing to place you and for him to open the door. Still, the knob didn’t twist, the many locks he had put on additionally didn’t rattle and you could have sworn that the whirring of the lamp you had heard earlier died down. “Bucky,” you called out, “It’s me. Can you please open the door?” You waited. Seconds that felt like minutes ticked by and your hands got clammy as you shifted on your feet. “Bucky, you gave me a key. But I don’t wanna use it, so, please just let me in. Bu-,” before you could finish his name, you heard a series of noises. A pair of feet shuffling over creaky old floorboards, and what sounded like dishes being set down in the sink. Then you heard a window being ripped open – the frame squeaked terribly – and then the footsteps came closer.  One lock was unlocked, then the second one. A metallic clank sounded and then the doorknob turned.  The door opened with a squeak that made your teeth hurt.  The apartment was dark, and despite the cold breeze that the recently opened window let in, it smelled dusty and faintly like old takeout food.  “Hey.” One thing about Bucky is that he just could not lose his charm. He stood before you, eyebags darker than ever, brown curls unkempt and knotted, and his scruff on his cheeks a little longer than usual and asymmetrical – as if he had laid on one side for too long. 

Despite his appearance, he leaned against the doorframe with a trace of his characteristic smile turning up his mouth corners.  “Hi,” you replied, slightly perplexed.  “I didn’t realise it was already Saturday,” he said after a few seconds of silence and attempted to swipe his hair from his forehead until he realised that it was too unbrushed to run his fingers through it.  He awkwardly dropped his hand but gave you another smile. “It’s not,” you answered and peered past him. Before you could properly glance into his apartment, he moved into your eyeline, a determined look in his eyes.  “Oh. Then what are you doing here?” He asked, shifting again when you tried to steal another glimpse into his living space. You took a few seconds before you replied during which you struggled not to be offended by his question.  “You never called me back,” you explained then, and locked eyes with him. Heat rose on his face as you bluntly called him out and his hands again found their way into his hair, and again, he had to drop them back to his sides as he couldn’t nervously run them through.  “Yeah, no, I meant to, but I… I was busy,” he stammered, blocking your third attempt to look past him.  “Okay,” you murmured slowly, “Can you… would you mind letting me in?” Bucky chewed on his lip for a few seconds, and you could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he tried to find a way to let you down gently. “Uh, now’s not a good time.”

Your heart sank even further as you tried to come up with reasonings with his behaviour. “Are you-,” you began, and stared at your feet instead of meeting his eyes, “Is someone in there with you?” His eyes went round with surprise before he composed himself.  “What? No, no, I’m… I’m alone in here, but it’s just not, uh, a good time, like I said.” A little bit of the tightness in your chest loosened as he genuinely looked shocked at your implication. But you still couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t let you in. “Are you leaving? Like, are you going somewhere?” You inquired then, trying to find a reason that would satisfy you. Bucky stayed quiet before he shook his head.  “No, nothing like that. Listen, doll, I just… I haven’t really prepared for visitors, or anything like that, so it’d be great if… um –,“ before he finished speaking, you could tell that he was having a hard time sending you back home. He knew how long the ride here was and that you usually worked on Fridays. “it’s just not a good time,” he concluded.

There was a faint line, so thin that it was barely visible, that you were threatening to cross right now. A line between what Bucky allowed you to see on the Saturdays when you visited him, and the rest of his life.  “Just let me in,” you whispered. “Let me… help you.” The conflict in his eyes played out like a storm. Vulnerability and stubbornness raged against each other, as he seemingly weighed his options: allowing you in or pushing you away. Both seemed to frighten him as you heard how his metal arm whirred while he clenched and unclenched his fists. “Alright,” he mumbled and slowly stepped back. His apartment was in a terrible state. For someone who had very little furnishings, a tiny amount of clothes and basically no personal belongings it should have been easy to basically produce a clinically clean space. Instead, you saw instant food packaging, empty beer cans and ripped paper shreds sprawled across his couch table. You recognised the paper as an article about Steve – honouring his legacy and paying tribute to his sacrifice. You had read the same one a few days ago and had cried until your head hurt. The sofa cushions were crumbled up and uneven. A thin blanket laid on the floor as if it had fallen off or been pushed off in a hurry. He must have slept there instead of in his bed.  The kitchen door was half closed, and through the gap you saw dishes towering dangerously, a towel haphazardly slung over them in an attempt to hide them. You turned to face Bucky, who refused to meet your eye. Instead, he clenched his jaw so tight that it must have hurt and stared out the opened window. “Bucky,” you whispered.  “Like I said, I didn’t know you were coming.” His tone was defensive and sharp, but his eyes glistened as the shame burned in him. “Bucky, look at me,” you pleaded and took a few steps towards him. “This place is a mess,” he croaked, his voice heavy with unshed tears, “There’s nowhere for you to stay.” “But I’ll stay anyway,” you murmured and rested your hand on his cheek. “I’ll stay and help you.”

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